


And the Blood Will Dry Underneath My Nails

by Tory_The_Kitteh



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst and Feels, Bigotry & Prejudice, Dick Grayson is a Talon, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Post Mpreg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-05 02:27:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6685564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tory_The_Kitteh/pseuds/Tory_The_Kitteh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where Dick is a Talon for the Court of Owls, but he’s also an omega. And now he’s starting to want more than what the Court is offering…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, this be my first ever a/b/o fic, also first batman fic... Just an idea I had floating around in my head with Dick being an omega Talon, and angsty plots happened.
> 
> I'm on tumblr too. Not really that active, but if ya wanna talk 'n' stuff I'm Angelkitty54.

A lot can happen in a year, so much can change.

A year ago Richard Grayson knew who he was, what his purpose was, and where he belonged. Now though… well, it’s getting hard to remember what it was he had been working so hard for. It’s been a very confusing year for him…

And well, nine months is a long time to be idle. To be more specific: thirty nine weeks, four days and roughly seven hours, was a long time to be idle. It’s too long a time with nothing to do but think…

( _Talons do not need to think, only obey._ )

Ah but, saying he had nothing to do isn’t actually true. There was plenty going on; constant medical checkups, adjusting to the changes in his diet and living quarters, going through his new lighter training exercises, among other things… Still, it was nothing compared to the harsh training regime he had before.

Those nine months are over now though, and the Court has deemed him fit enough to return to his old duties. Strangely, he doesn’t feel quite as pleased with it as he thought he would be…

Grayson had wanted things to go back to the way they were before. But the last eleven days had been more difficult, had felt longer than he’d thought possible.

There was a strange comfort in putting on his uniform again, even if it no longer fit him correctly. He’d grown taller, was thicker than usual, his hips were too wide and the fabric, which at one time felt like a second skin, now chafed in weird places, like the soft skin of his inner thigh. He frowned as he thought of how soft and pudgy his stomach had become.

It was frustrating how he’d lost so much muscle mass. Grayson had always kept himself in shape; quick, lean and strong, like the honed weapon he was supposed to be. What was he now that he’d become so sluggish and fat?

It was a small comfort, at least, that his belly no longer sagged pathetically like a deflated balloon as it had less than a week ago.

He wished he could say the same for his chest which remained bloated and throbbing within the confines of his suit. It felt so tight and it was hard to breathe, with a constant ache that he couldn’t ignore entirely, but the pain was proof he was still alive.

( _Don’t be so foolish; Talons aren’t alive._ )

He thought back to the medication that would relieve him of his agony, and then of the way he'd pretended to take it, lodging it in his throat instead to be disposed of later. He’d done so too, almost immediately as he had slipped into the first dark alleyway.

Why had he done that? It’s not like he needs to…

No! Don’t think about it. You have a mission. Stop thinking, just focus on the mission. It’s easier to just be than it is to think, to wonder, to know...

Yeah, that’s right it was easier before… So he won’t think; it hurts to think. He’ll just continue to exist and let the Court do the thinking for him. It was – it is – better this way, easier this way… He doesn’t want to hurt anymore…

...............

The task assigned to him is simple enough, one he has performed a dozen times over. The Court has already provided the information on his target’s location and schedule, saving him the trouble of having to hunt his prey down. Really this shouldn’t take more than a few hours, yet they’ve given him a time limit of three days.

It grated on his pride. Grayson is not a child anymore; he doesn’t need to be coddled! He’ll show them... It'll take only one night to complete his mission.

But doubt started to creep in as he travels down familiar streets, swooping over rooftops with significantly less grace than usual. Every little scrape of his claws against stone, the gentle thud of his footsteps, it all felt loud as a thunderclap.

It had him checking over his shoulder every few seconds, sure that someone had heard and that he’d been seen. But no one was ever there; he remained just another shadow in the dark. All was quiet even as he hauled himself up onto a favoured perch atop a gargoyle, chest heaving and muscles protesting the exertion.

The night had barely begun and he already wished it was over, wanting nothing more than to crawl back to his quarters and curl up under the covers.

His mood seemed to sour even more as he absently noted all the little changes made to the city in the past year. There was a chill in the air that Grayson swore his over sensitized skin could still feel despite being covered head to toe in insulated fabric. Well, at least the weather was still as gloomy as it always seems to be in Gotham. 

He flexed his fingers, taking comfort from the familiar feeling of his claws at his fingers, the weight of the knives at his waist filling him with an estranged sense of security. He never used to have such feeling of ease from their presence before…

…His target will be moving in less than half an hour; always last to leave, the car park will be empty. It’ll be the perfect opportunity to strike.

His claws suddenly seem to weigh heavily on his hands. He brings them up and stares. His fingers curl slightly at the odd empty feeling in his palms.

What would it even feel like to hold something so small, so fragile, in his hands? How does one even hold such a thing? There’s a special way to do it, isn’t there? A gentle way… Could he do it? Have something so tiny, so soft, so very breakable, in his arms curled safely against his chest?

( _Don’t think about it_. _You are meant for other things_.)

His hands are empty. His chest still throbs, but the ache feels fresher.

His eyes wonder down from the empty space between his hands, past the slight swell of his chest, to linger on his flat belly. Empty… He doesn’t know how long he stares at his stomach before he drags his gaze back up to his hands.

For a moment he sees them stained red, dark and dripping down from the sharp edge of his claws to pool over the gargoyle’s head. For a moment he almost chokes on the scent, thick and coppery it clings to him like a shroud. For a moment all he hears is screams, of the dead, of the dying, of those that will die…

And then it’s gone, replaced by a shrill cry, sharp and needy in his ears. The foul stench of blood masked but not entirely hiding another scent, such a lovely scent. Tiny, he looked so tiny, so fragile and oh so very precious bundled under that thick fuzzy blanket…

In the distance an ancient bell tower chimes.

The vision is gone. Grayson is alone, back out in the cold dark night perched atop a gargoyle’s back.

He looks back at his hands. They’re clean as they were before. Gotham reeks as she always does, and her people cry out in a constant cacophony of noises as they go about their lives. All is as it was before, nothing changes… Nothing stays the same…

Nine months is too long to be idle. Too much time is given to think. It is better not to think, not to hurt, not to _have_ , if it will all just be taken away in the end.

His hands are empty, but there’s work to be done. His task is simple, his prey easy, the night is young and there’s no room for thinking. Not for him.

It’s almost time to make his move…


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, sorry for taking so long, this chapter was so hard to get out...

It should have been an easy mark; track down and eliminate the target, erase all evidence of his presence, return to his quarters and await further instructions.

But what it _should_ have been and what it _was_ , were two completely different things…

Grayson should have been ready, should have been swift and agile, he should have been nothing more than a shadow on the wall… And tonight, he was none of those things. What he had been was something slower, his movements as sloppy and sluggish as his mind had become. An amateur could have done better…

He knew he was not perfect like the other Talons; his brethren, asleep and waiting, for what exactly he is not privy to. But while Grayson was considerably lacking in certain aspects that they were not, he had never _failed_ before.

He had trained, refined his skill set, acquired and mastered new skills through perseverance and practice. He was flexible, good at improvising, something which pleased the Court. True, he was not without his flaws, but he had been quite proud of his ability to meet and perform above expectations of him.

( _Another flaw; a Talon has no need for useless emotions such as pride._ )

Despite having yet to return to full strength, Grayson believed this mission to be within his current capabilities.

The Court deemed him ready. The Court was never wrong, their word was law. So Grayson had no reason to believe otherwise. The Court could not ever be wrong. Any and every failure was on his head alone…

The kill itself had been sloppy. The target was a lumbering overweight beta. His name was not important, what he had done to slight the Court was even less so, what mattered was the Court had sentenced him to die. It should have ended in one strike.

Grayson struck from behind, his knife slicing through the thick rolls of flesh at his target’s neck. He missed the carotid artery. Was it his aim? Was it the man’s extra weight that threw him off?

Too late, the beta let out a terrified gurgled screech and lurched away, hand at his neck trying to stem the flow of blood. He whirled around, wide panic laden eyes landed on the assassin for barely half a second.

Half a second was all Grayson needed to launch himself atop the frightened beta. This time he plunged his knife down through the man’s windpipe. With one last gurgled breath and a few helpless jerks, the light left his target’s eyes.

Brown eyes so wide, so scared, now dark and empty...

Are all babies born with blue eyes?

( _Don’t think about unnecessary things._ )

They made too much noise. Worse still, he had _lingered_. His breath heaved, chest tightening all the more, and his muscles protested the heavy exertion it had taken to bring this gutted pig down. He is meant to be nothing more than a ghost; he should have disappeared long ago, instead of sitting above his kill catching his breath!

The main disruption to the plan came when he failed to take the actions of the local security guards into account. Sometimes guards grow bored. Occasionally they would change their routines just to ease said boredom. He knew that through years of experience, yet the thought never crossed his mind as he moved in on his target.

If the night watchmen had kept to their usual patrol routes, then Grayson would have had at least another seven and a half minutes before they would stumble upon the scene.

As it was, he barely had time to bring his breathing under control before they arrived.

Talons worked in the dark. They were the unseen blade of the Court. None but their Masters were to know of their existence. Witnesses will not be tolerated. There was only one course of action to be taken…

**..............**

To dwell on “what ifs” and “should haves” or even the “could have been” was a fool’s errand. Something to which a Talon has no purpose looking into...

The prospect of failure weighs heavily in Grayson’s mind. The target was neutralised, but the body shouldn’t have been discovered until Grayson was long gone, another cold case to be filed away and never reopened again. There shouldn’t have been any witnesses; those men should have been dead before they could even register what they saw.

One slip up could be forgiven, but for him to miss his mark a second time... He was too slow, too weak, something that would have been no more difficult than mere target practice now seemed impossible.

Out here every moment, every second counts. While one guard collapsed grasping desperately at the knife lodged between his ribs, the other had had enough time to fill his lungs.  The half second it took Grayson to reach him was more than long enough to let out a sharp cry for help that echoed off the walls...

A cry for help that went _answered_.

The Delegates of the Court had gathered often gathered to discuss the mystery that is the Batman. Who was he? How will his existence change things? What should they do with him? The debates would go on for hours at a time.

Every time the discussions would end with singular question: “ _Do we eliminate the Bat?”_

And every time the Court would whisper back: _“Not yet...”_

Even one’s enemies can prove to be of use someday. In the mean time, the Court of Owls shall remain hidden. The Bat will not die, but he will know nothing of the Court or their Talons. Grayson is no exception.

In the moment when the dark figure swooped down, cape fluttering behind him like a living shadow, Grayson knew he would not win the impending fight. If he had more time, were he not already so fatigued, if he could have simply slain the Bat and be done with it, perhaps then he could have.

In his current state, he could not defeat Batman and still leave him alive. But he could not let himself be caught; he could not leave any more evidence, anything substantial that may lead back to his Masters.

Though the circumstances were far from ideal, the main objective had been accomplished. Victory was impossible, capture was unforgivable; flight was the only remaining option.

So Grayson ran. Fleeing up to the rooftops where he is most at home. Yet his pursuer does not falter, remaining only a scant few steps behind. The hunt begins, but with Grayson being the prey this time.

Behind his mask his teeth are bared. He will not be caught, he will not fail. Not this time…


End file.
